The day after the coffee in the infirmary, someone motions for me to head for the exit. Akka is there, whistling under his breath. Zaki and Larbi, two guys from Tangier, have been selected along with me. We’re still afraid. We don’t dare believe it. I glance one last time at Akka. We walk faster. As we cross the threshold, Akka says to us, with a strange smile, “See you soon!”
We don’t answer. But we think, yes, that’s it, soon, you bastard, we’ll meet again in a court of law with honest judges, people who will apply the law with perfect integrity, people horrified by this system that tortures, disappears opponents, or parks them in a camp run by heartless and perverse executioners. Zaki leans toward me and asks, lowering his voice as if we were still in the camp and being spied on, “You think the king knows about what they did to us?”
I reply in a normal voice, while he tries frantically to hush me.
“The king? He doesn’t give a fuck about us, he doesn’t even know we exist and that we’re suffering.”
We wait for a taxi. We count the money: not enough to get to Tangier, more than eight hours’ drive from the camp. The car is an old yellow Mercedes that must have been a taxi during the Second World War. The driver looks at us aghast, as if faced with space aliens.
“Where did you come from?”
“From the army,” replies Larbi. Zaki pipes up: “We were on vacation at Akka’s place.”
We negotiate the price. We pay him an advance and promise him the rest when we get home.
We set out. Zaki in front, Larbi and I in the back. The driver smokes. It bothers me but I don’t dare say so. I watch the landscape stream by and reflect that nothing has changed. Larbi, always carefree, sleeps deeply and snores. Zaki chats with the driver so he’ll stay awake. Me, I daydream without managing to drift off to sleep, oppressed by incoherent images. I’m not thinking of anything. I let myself be lulled as if after great exhaustion.
At Fez, we stop for some coffee. It’s Zaki who pays. Finally, some real coffee, I’d forgotten the taste of it. The driver eats a big sandwich and drinks a Coke. I walk a few steps to make sure that I’m really free, released. I raise my arms, I jump, I do anything at all, I shout, I run, and come back to the taxi. People must think I’m loony. And I was lucky not to wind up that way. This time I go to sleep in the taxi, and wake up in Larache, a large harbor town. It’s nighttime. No one in the streets. I sense the presence of the sea. I breathe deeply and tell myself, That’s it, the house isn’t far now, another two or three hours on the road.
ON THE OUTSIDE
January 28, 1968: I arrive home in the evening. My parents have not been informed of my release. I’m standing at their front door. The light is still on. The driver is waiting. I ring. My father asks, “Who’s there?” and opens the door. I fall into his arms; we both weep. My mother runs up and lets out ululations that wake up the neighborhood. My father embraces the driver and invites him in. I give him two hundred dirhams. It’s one in the morning. Rahma, the household help, wakes up: “I’ll fix you something to eat.” I’m not hungry, or, rather, I don’t know what I want. I’m here and I’m not here. A strange feeling. The world and I are reeling, and I don’t know where to touch down. My mother exclaims over how thin I’ve gotten; I confess that it doesn’t bother me. I swallow two mouthfuls of chicken with olives and feel fatigue overpowering me. I nod off on the cushions in the dining room. My father, as he did when I was a child, carries me to my room, draws the covers over me, and I hear him praying. My mother is worried, doesn’t know what to do, and wiping at her tears says, “The bastards, they’ve destroyed my son.”
But it’s impossible to sleep, really; the soft bed doesn’t suit me. I feel a kind of malaise at this comfort, a rejection. I lie down on the thin carpet. The hard floor makes me think of the stones that used to jab at my spine. I roll over, roll back. I’ve returned from my ordeal with a new friend: insomnia. I suffer from it still. I think I’ve tried everything to recover peaceful and deep sleep. But there’s no help for it, sleeping has become a rare, even impossible thing. And now I don’t eat, I just swallow. My stomach hurts. I don’t even enjoy the fine dishes my mother makes. After all, I can’t really ask her to cook with camel fat and let the bread get stale for days. Reentry is a whole new struggle requiring time and patience.
After bolting some food, I finally take a bath, relax, put on clean clothes. I’m recovering myself little by little with an eye, perhaps, to telling my story. Rahma whispers to me that my ex-fiancée has left the village, gone off with a Christian. It doesn’t matter. I no longer think about her. Need to remake myself. The whole family arrives. My big brother, who had gone with me that day, is here; the brother studying in Grenoble phones me and admits that he had been afraid for me. My sister has come as well, along with her husband, their eldest daughter, my aunt, my two uncles, their children, some neighbors, friends of my father, and my rebellious cousin, the one who went to prison for saying that in this country, corruption begins at the top. Three years in prison for insulting His Majesty. My cousin had not mentioned him but was condemned anyway.
It’s a celebration. I’m worn out, a bit sad. I go up to the terrace and look at the sea. Beautiful weather. The strait is calm. One can see the shores of Spain. I think of the militants imprisoned by Franco. Despotism and repression flourish there, too. I stay a good while in the sunshine, imagining life on the other side of the water. For the first time, I feel I have been set free. I no longer belong to them. But am I free? I will not even be able to tell the story of our suffering. I remember Debray, the French philosopher, and wonder if he is still imprisoned in Bolivia. Two years later, I will learn of his release. I feel as if with my liberation, all prisoners of conscience ought to be set free. I see a fisherman’s boat, hear the sound of the engine and I wish I could be on that boat. My mother calls me: lunch is ready. She got up very early this morning to prepare everything that I love.
I’m greeted with questions, hugs, cries of joy. My aunt, the one who’s afraid of nothing, says bluntly, “Now, we’ll have to find him a wife, poor fellow, he must be famished, we’ll marry him off to a girl of good family, a girl who’ll be honored to love him . . .” Everyone laughs. Yes to needing a woman, but not for getting married. I call a friend who was with me at the university, who tells me about the courses I must still complete. I’m missing one certificate for my philosophy degree. It’s now February. I have time to present my dissertation in June.
My parents tell me how shocked they were by my ex-fiancée’s behavior. They were ashamed. I reassure them: It’s nothing, I say, I’m no longer fond of her. It’s difficult to discuss this painful subject with them. It hurts me, and I try not to show it. What’s the use of explaining to them that I love that girl of scandalous beauty?
My mother has her diabetes to take care of. My father coughs, even though he stopped smoking. My big brother talks to me about Nadia, the daughter he lost, and the immense sorrow that has fallen on the family. Rahma brings me up to date on all that has happened since I left, and mixes everything together: “The grocer died suddenly, no one misses him, he was mean and dirty, they say he was bitten by a rat while he was sleeping in his shop; it’s his son who’s taken over, he’s nice and gives everyone credit; the neighbor’s son is in prison, he sold kif to a flic, he’s a jerk; your aunt dreams of you marrying her daughter, you know, the skinny one who can’t find a husband; one of your girl cousins almost died because of gas, yes, she was saved just in time; the king made a speech in which he condemns girls who wear very short skirts; your big sister went off to Mecca for the second time and came back cured of all her ills . . . Enough, now rest!”
A need for movies, a visceral need to see images streaming past, to be in a darkened theater, waiting for the film to begin, to sit through the poorly made commercials, to listen to the weekly news bulletins dealing almost exclusively with the royal court. When the king doesn’t figure in a news story, it’s in black and white. As soon as it’s about the royal family,
everything is filmed in bright colors. I put up with these boring newsreels and think about Ava Gardner and Richard Burton because I’m here for John Huston’s Night of the Iguana. The film is slow in starting. The audience grows impatient. Someone informs us all that the bicycle messenger bringing the reels has had an accident and is in the hospital; as for the film, it’s at the police station. People shout, they protest. Another fellow gets up on the stage. “You’re in luck!” he exclaims. “We have a great film as a replacement: a magnificent love story that even won the Palme d’Or at Cannes.” Silence in the theater. Then the man announces . . . A Man and a Woman. Consternation. We’re used to seeing only American films in this theater, and now they’re foisting off on us a French film by Claude Lelouch. Disappointed but resigned—I still have the reflex of military submission—I do not protest. I would never have waited in line to see one of his films. It begins. A lemonade vendor goes by shouting, “Coca Judor, Coca Judor!” Spectators rise and leave the theater. Me, I stay until the end even though I hate every shot. Lelouch is a good cameraman but a pathetic film director. He has nothing to say and says it pretentiously. That throbbing, monotonous music finally puts me off for good.
As I’d hoped, seeing images flow by has done me good, however. The next day, Ava Gardner explodes from the screen. She has a few bruises on her arms. The messenger’s bicycle accident has almost disfigured her. I catch up by watching the movie twice. John Huston is incredible.
On the other hand, ever since that day I’ve felt a deep-seated aversion for Claude Lelouch. Unjustly. I know he has his fans. My friend Amidou, the Moroccan actor who began his career with him, has told me a great deal about him. Amidou hasn’t changed my mind, but when you do love something, you don’t understand the why of that, either. Let’s say that I will always resent Lelouch’s having stepped in for Huston that day . . .
I leave for Rabat to continue my philosophy studies. Along with poetry, philosophy was my pillar and my crutch. The source of all knowledge, fueling my conviction that through its study we consolidate our dignity as human beings and citizens. Rabat has not changed. It’s a city where everything stands still. At the Faculty of Letters, however, I can’t find any of my former comrades. Some are teaching, others have gone abroad to write theses. But M. Chenu is still there: friendly, likeable, you can see his red cheeks are veined with violet, it’s the alcohol. He gives me a list of works to read and when we part, says, “It was hard, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
On my way to the Cité Universitaire, I pass a military barracks. I look at the soldier on guard duty. I can hear shouts of “Balkoum!” And “Raha!” Attention . . . At ease . . . I smile. There are no lodgings available at the Cité anymore, and I’m sent off to Father Gilles, who runs La Source, where he rents rooms to students. There I meet a Frenchman, a painter; desperate, he borrows money from me, then disappears. Father Gilles tells me he’s an unfortunate soul, nice but rather disoriented. I’m to be in charge of the film club once a week. I show The Leopard, followed by a lively debate about Visconti’s classicism. I’m happy because I feel thousands of miles from the camp. I’m coming back to life, I do useless things, find it fun to go treasure hunting in flea markets and then buy roasted peanuts I eat with a glass of sweet mint tea. I grow lazy. I’m strolling idly and I love that. But as night approaches I feel increasingly afraid and then panicky. I am alone; I reason with myself, out loud, to dissipate this tension. I recognize the anguish: the nature of this state is that it gives no warning. It arrives, that’s all. You don’t know why or how. With my hands I push away the approaching night. I look at the sky and call for light. Some stars streak away and others keep shining.
The camp and its ghosts obsess me. I keep seeing the poor soldier who must have died buried alive. I see again the hard face, the pitiless gaze of Chief Warrant Officer Akka. All that builds up in my head and strengthens the migraine. I’m still keeping track of days and nights; 564 days with nights that are not really nights, some of them are so short. We were time itself, and we had to walk along to accompany it until the sky changed its light. I am freed but not free. The camp weighs heavily. I carry it on my shoulders. My back is strained and weary. The camp haunts me, with its dreadful winters and suffocating summers. I have to get out of there, get rid of it. Insomnia digs a furrow through my aching body. This all takes place in silence. Above all, don’t speak of it, don’t complain: that would only aggravate the situation. And then there is an odor difficult to describe, to define. It invades me from time to time. The odor of El Hajeb, something humid and greasy, viscous. I hold my nose and wait for it to fade away. My mother has given what were my clothes to the neighbors’ sons. I’ve gotten so thin that nothing fits me.
James Joyce’s novel, dragged along with me everywhere, is now dirty, with that indescribable odor of captivity. When I open it, I can’t manage to get past one or two pages: I don’t read it, I remember. And those memories smell bad. Forgive me, Monsieur Joyce, but your masterpiece has been stained by ordeals of which you have no idea. It has become mixed up with something brutal. It has been soiled by a sad and nauseating context, but its presence has helped me, given me hope and ideas. Your audacity of creation has marked me, made me dream of one day attaining something that would approach that boldness, a promise of freedom from the pettiness and pain of the world.
I visit Abdel, one of my former professors. I give him the few pages written during captivity. Still drawing on his extinguished pipe, he reads and murmurs, “It’s good, it’s strong . . .” He offers to send the pages to a friend, the poet Abdellatif Laâbi, who has just launched a poetry review, Souffles (Breaths).1
Time has changed color and intensity. I tackle several difficult texts and work without respite; some of them find a special resonance within me. I read Nietzsche. Thus Spake Zarathustra becomes my bedside book. I read it as a novel. I take notes. Then I tackle The Gay Science. Neither deaf nor deafened, I am happy to be so comforted in my still stammering ideas. I love when the philosopher evokes the “religion of pity” and the “religion of comfort.”
In any case there is only one thing for us to do: admit death and not neglect the felicities of life, by striving never to shame another human being, and never to humiliate intelligence and our presence in the world. One must build up one’s self enough to avoid going astray amid the noise and disturbance of the times. The image of the eternal hourglass of existence fascinates me and explains my resistance to sleep. Shat upon by Nietzsche’s “dirty birds of our time,” I keep a lively mind ready to learn, because as Nietzsche says, thus “we become limpid once more.” And Zarathustra says, “Thoughts that come on doves’ feet guide the world.” It’s at this moment that I discover Spinoza and adopt one of his ideas: “Everything that is tends to persevere in its being.” That is my motto, a thought that came to me on doves’ feet. Even if we modify certain parameters, not only does no one change, but the whole world persists in its certainties even unto death.
I could have come out of the camp changed, hardened, an adept at force and even violence, but I left as I had arrived, full of illusions and tenderness for humanity. I know that I am mistaken. But without that ordeal and those injustices I would never have written anything.
In June 1968, I receive my degree in philosophy. In July, I’m given my posting: teaching in Tétouan, a city known for being very conservative and rather unwelcoming.
Souffles publishes my poems. I’m beside myself with joy. Readers write to me. I’m in heaven. My students talk to me about my poetry. Then someone asks me, “So, when’s the next poem?” I don’t say anything and think, I have to keep going . . . In Tétouan as in the rest of Morocco no one has heard anything about the military camp. When I’m asked about my absence, I reply, “I was on vacation in Ahermoumou.” People repeat the name, garbling it, not knowing even whether it’s a village or a country.
JUNE 5, 1971
Three years later, at the end of May, I receive a summons, signed by Commanda
nt Ababou, to appear on August 1 at the camp at El Hajeb. I call my former comrades: they have received one too. I have no desire to go through that again. I think about running away, going into exile. My parents agree with me. I am a philosophy teacher at Lycée Mohammed V in Casablanca. The school year has been quite short. Given the strikes, the arrests of students, repression of all kinds has already driven me to prepare to leave for France. No scholarship, no stipend. The ministry won’t budge. I’m on contract, and if I want to leave I must repay the state for the advance I received while earning my philosophy degree. I couldn’t care less. I have to leave. Abdel advises me to take a year’s sabbatical without pay. At the ministry I see an old gentleman who gives me to understand that he knows what trials I’ve been through. “I will make an exception and grant you a leave of absence, renewable for three years, contingent upon justification of your studies. Otherwise, you will be required to reimburse the Moroccan state for their cost.” As a teacher I earn 905 dirhams a month. Just enough for food and lodging. Impossible to save any money.
It’s definite. With my last month’s salary I buy a plane ticket to Paris. Departure planned for mid-July 1971. Because of the events that follow, my departure will be delayed by two months. Muhammad Ouassini, who is also leaving, has offered to put me up for a few days in the home of an aunt who lives in Charenton, just southeast of Paris.
The Punishment Page 9